


Cycles of Song

by oneinspats



Series: swimming through fire [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (It's Denethor guys.), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boromir Lives, Boromir pOV, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fix-It, Grima POV, M/M, everyone has their issues but it's nothing worse than in My Land is Bare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: The last instalment of the Boromir-Lives LOTR rewrite. Helm's Deep has concluded and we are on to the Return of the King.Boromir and Gandalf are off to Gondor to see what they can do to help. Aragorn, because he likes to take the most whack routes possible, is to drag the remainder Fellowship through the paths of the dead. No one signed up for this.With our Rohan compatriots: Grima continues to be a hot wreck who is actually managing himself not half-bad, all things considered. Eowyn just wants to really, really fight the baddies. Theoden thinks everyone needs to cool it for ten seconds. Eomer has never heard the word "chill" in his life.Anyway - things continue to go pear shaped.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Denethor/His Palantir, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, but that's more in the background/subtle
Series: swimming through fire [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608931
Comments: 56
Kudos: 85





	1. Arrivals Home

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! Return of the King, baby! 
> 
> As with the previous iterations, I take and pick from the books and the films. As I feel Denethor was one of the characters done so dirty by the films, most of the siege of Gondor etc. will be from the books. 
> 
> As always, tags and ratings may change. I'll give CW fyi at the head of chapters if I think it's needed. If there's anything you want a heads up for, let me know.

_Men who dream by daylight with eyes open are the most dangerous,_ Denethor said. It was after a council meeting and Denethor was wanting for the sun so they were in his favourite courtyard looking southward over the city. _Those who dream by daylight are able to enact the vanities and desires most others can only think of at night with eyes closed. Morning, they forget the wanting of their soul and nighttime mind._

Later, Denethor would explain it to a man condemned for oath-breaking and selling secrets to Sauron’s agents: _You dreamt with your eyes open. You really should not have done that._

But some men dream during the day. Whether they will it or not, they are lost in the soft shadowed halls of their minds. They think all they see and experience is real and if it is not, that it can be made such. 

_My father’s rule is failing,_ Boromir said to Éomer between Helm’s Deep and Isengard. _But I mean to restore it._

A dream. 

Boromir knows well that in some ways he is a waking dreamer. He may not have the blood of the Westernese in him as his grandfather, his father, brother, Aragorn all do - but he does have the ability to make real what most can only dream about. Returned and prophesied kings, peace, the restoration of the nobility of his house. He will see them done. In what way would that make him a dangerous man?

It is several swift days from the Fords of Isen down to the fields of Gondor. Farms and pastures are fertile and ready for summer. The land stretches out wide; it is all green and gold and rich black soil. Copses of trees, rock walls indicating boundaries of the small hamlets, homesteads and towns that intersperse the land. To the west, the low hills that slope into the greater White Mountains are made of orchards and vineyards. Though they are not visible to the naked eye in this purple twilight of morning, Boromir knows they are there. He has walked through them, smelled their harvest, eaten the fruit they bear. 

In silence, he and Mithrandir fly past all of this. All the homesteads, herdsmen, pastures and farms. Normally a well populated land, most have retreated into the mountains along with their food supply. Those who remain are clearly readying to leave. Boromir assumes his father must have given order for a full evacuation which would align with the beacons lit. At night he saw them flickering, summoning soldiers from the more populous southern and western fiefs. 

It is morning when they reach the northern gate of Rammas Echor, the outer wall of Minas Tirith that encircles the fields of Pelennor which, like the farmlands outside the wall, lies untilled for the people of Pelennor have withdrawn into the security of intricate mountain passes.

Boromir and Mithrandir reign in their horses to a walk as they approach the towering doors. Balsa wood, carved with the faces of dead kings, they stand unbroken and unbowed. As of yet. Pushing back his hood Boromir scans the windows of the causeway tower that connects to the gate. It is a little early, he supposes, to be knocking on Gondor’s door. 

Dismounting, he plucks up a small rock and hurls it against the wooden shutters of one of the windows. He can hear Mithrandir’s soft sigh: _Really? Can we not knock?_

‘I know the guard,’ Boromir says over his shoulder. ‘I want to give him grief.’ 

A hint of movement from within the room. Boromir chucks another pebble upward. This prompts a muffled yell then the window and shutters are flung open with an irascible: ‘Knock on the gate like a normal person.’ This is followed by a, ‘Oh gods what are you doing here?’ 

Boromir grins up at the guard Ingbold whose annoyance has turned to shock then to pleasure. His face, with its fine black skin, is a journey to follow. 

‘I repeat my question,’ Ingbold calls down. ‘I didn’t think we’d see you for months yet.’ 

‘Are you not happy that your captain has returned?’ 

Ingbold grins, ‘Of course I am. Though Lord Faramir’s nicer than you so having him as substitute has been a wee holiday for us all.’ Then he holds up a hand, says just a minute, and slides from view. A few seconds later the gates are opened to reveal several more tired guards and a self-satisfied Ingbold, half in armour, and leaning on his spear. 

‘Nice cloak,’ he says as Boromir pulls him into a hug. ‘Foreign, though.’ 

‘Elvish.’ 

‘Oh ho! Elvish!’ 

‘From Lothlórien.’ 

‘Has it cursed you yet?’ 

Boromir wiggles his fingers as he pulls away. ‘Their magic is not what you would assume it to be.’ 

Ingbold then takes in Mithrandir with a raised eyebrow, points to the wizard but looks as Boromir: ‘New clothes for him too? Elvish as well? I’m behind the times.’ 

‘We’ve all been on a bit of a journey.’ 

At a meandering pace they pass through the foregate and onto the main roads to Minas Tirith. Ingbold provides the latest news from the patrols and what some of Boromir’s lesser liked companions have been up to. (Derufin has been moved to guard our side of the Anduin at Osgiliath. Lord Faramir says he has potential if you would but give him a chance. Another chance. I can see you disagree. Rían continues to be the most useless man the gods ever decided to plant upon this green earth. Remind me to tell you about the argument he had with your lord father’s grainery overseer. It was the most exciting thing to happen in weeks. Elboron continues to think himself a great poet. He’s not. Worst still, he refuses to take constructive criticism. Oh, he’s decided to learn the lute. I know, I made that face as well. &tc. &tc.) 

Slowing down Ingbold takes Boromir’s arm and gives it a tight squeeze. ‘It’s good to see you back. And not a moment too soon. There’ve been strange omens of late. Better you hear all of this from your lord father, but I can say that a few days ago a single bird flew through the guardroom window and died at the hearth.’ 

‘Did it?’ Boromir frowns as they draw to a pause in their walk. 

‘About two weeks ago. Maybe two and a half. Then there were the empty boats discovered washed ashore. Three of them, all white and made in a fashion that fits neither Gondor or Rohan.’ 

‘I can’t speak to the bird but for the boats - that was down to me and my companions. We set them afloat by the Falls of Rauros to lead unwelcomed followers astray, little good it did us.’ 

‘Your brother sent word that the horn of Gondor was found in one. Broken.’ Ingbold glances at Mithrandir then back to Boromir. Leaning on his spear he adds, ‘Lord Faramir declared that he put no credence in what most thought it meant. He wrote that he would know if you had died.’ 

Most likely he would, Boromir thinks. Most likely Faramir would be the first to know. But the absence of his father from the conversation concerns him. He wants to ask: And Lord Denethor? Think he that his favourite son has died? 

‘I thank you,’ Boromir says. ‘This is all good to know. I wasn’t sure what I’d be returning home to, but it’s good to know what people have been saying.’ 

Idly scratching his chin Ingbold adds, ‘The most popular rumour I heard was that you went north, took up with wizards and witches, then drowned - most likely heroically - on the river. Probably Sauron’s fault.’ 

Mithrandir cocks an eyebrow at this and Ingbold flashes his quickfire smile. Boromir mutters, ‘Not entirely wrong.’ Then, louder, ‘I do miss the army gossip chain. We’re worse than fishmongers. Have you spoken with Hereward recently?’ 

‘He has a fifth grandson. His family continues to proliferate.’ 

‘Well, someone needs to.’ 

‘Ah, additional rumour-mongering for you: Hereward said that he heard you were given a riddle to solve and your lord father wished you to take council with an elvish prince to the north. He also said he heard from his Rohan contact that you lost one of their horses. I see they’ve given you a new one. Which is a shocking thing, considering how tight fisted the king’s advisor is up there. Do you know, your lord father asked for a dozen new horses from them and Gríma said no?’ 

Boromir opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again: ‘When was this?’ 

‘Four months ago? Three? Something like that.’ 

Mithrandir snorts, shakes his head and mutters something Boromir can’t quite hear but suspects it’s rude and wholly involves the former-traitor. 

‘But then,’ Ingbold happily continues, ‘I think Gríma takes pleasure in provoking Lord Denethor. This is what I hear from your brother who said he’s read most of the correspondence between them and it’s increasingly polite cat-fighting.’ 

‘And what was the reason for denying us horses?’ 

‘Apparently we wouldn’t send requested timber supplies north. Something about building up docks on a River Onodló-side town. Rohan wants a proper shipping centre on the river, is essentially what I got from it, and apparently we don’t want them to have one.’ 

Boromir, to Mithrandir, ‘If my father is partially to blame for the last two years in Rohan I will send King Théoden the most beautiful apology ever constructed.’ 

Mithrandir, ‘I suspect your father may be to blame for several things, most of them unintended.’

Boromir, unsure of what to say to that, turns back to Ingbold. ‘We’ve lingered too long, but I thank you again for the updates. I do like knowing what I’m walking into.’ They farewell warmly, Ingbold declaring that they’ll see each other soon. At least, it won’t be another six months and then some.

‘Hopefully in better times,’ Boromir says as he pulls himself onto Sigegard. ‘But most likely, we’ll next see each other with hosts of Morder between us.’ 

Ingbold taps his nose, ‘Here’s to better luck than that, but knowing your family, that will be the truth of the matter.’ 

‘How do you mean?’ 

‘Far seeing people, aren’t you?’ 

‘My father,’ Boromir rolls his eyes. ‘And my brother. Not me. Anyway, keep well. I want to know more about Elboron’s attempts at the lute and I’d like best to hear it from you.’ 

It is out on the road under with the great height and weight of Minas Tirith ahead of them that Boromir explains the dead bird to Mithrandir whose mild expression of curiosity bores into the head, a nail through bone. 

‘A bird dying in front of you signifies that a path has opened between the living and the dead.’ 

Mithrandir hums: ‘Does it indeed?’ 

‘At least according to our customs here. I won’t speak for other parts of Gondor. This means something to you, doesn’t it?’ 

‘I couldn’t say.’ 

‘You could but you don’t wish to.’ 

Mithrandir glances at him, a sharp look, but Boromir ignores it because it is one of a million sharp looks Mithrandir has tossed at him over the course of the past thirty-odd years.

‘You cannot be all things to all men,’ Mirthrandir says instead of explaining himself. ‘We’re going to see your father and I suspect it will be best we keep some things to ourselves.’ 

‘I’m not an errant child and, more importantly, I know how to handle my father.’ 

‘Aragorn must not be mentioned. Not yet, at least. There are some things I must understand before I would tell Lord Denethor about Isildur’s heir.’ 

Boromir scowls but gives a curt nod. Mithrandir’s motives are his alone and wholly inscrutable to those who are not Aragorn and, possibly, Lord Elrond. But, Boromir thinks, his father may believe him to be dead. A fact he had not considered when they set off the boats to baffle pursuit, but now it is all he can think of as he stares towards the steep walls of Gondor’s white city. 

Denethor in grief is a creature few know how to manuevor. Boromir aches when he thinks he may be the cause of pain for his father. He wants so desperately to make everything whole. To stitch the world back together again. He hopes he will but live long enough, and that he will be strong enough, to undertake even a small portion of that necessary work. 

Minas Tirith, like most cities, ebbs and flows with the tides of the seasons. In winter, people come in from the countryside: labourers, traveling merchants, sell swords, jack-of-all-trades, wanderers, rangers, and they all huddle together within the walls that define the city. Marble, they cut up from the earth, strong and seemingly unassailable. 

Come spring and summer, the world defrosts and people flood back onto the land, the roads, river, plains, an ice flow melting down mountainside. 

But no matter the season, the city is always full. Everyone crammed in beside each other, atop each other, haranguing one another, leaning out windows to shout at each other. Minas Tirith is many things, quiet is not one of them. 

And that energy of its citizens is a wave whose absence is apparent to Boromir even though he is still on the road. As his father has evacuated the capital, the air does not hold the people’s hopes, the dreams, the desperation, grit, tenacity - all the fibres that make them whole. The people of Gondor are built to last. There is always at least one among them who remembers that hope is a duty to each other and the future. It is what is owed to humanity. And that person is almost always happy to loudly, voraciously, and consistently remind everyone around them of this fact. Even if they must do it in the middle of a mountain pass. 

And Boromir’s hope? It is writ in himself, in his brother, their people (without whom they would be nothing), and in a ranger from the north finally said yes. 

Boromir thinks he could write a poem or two about how his chest feels at this precise moment. The relief that washed over because he hadn’t realized how much it had been hurting that the future king did not see himself as one of them. Did not see his home as Gondor. 

But now, a decision has been made. And Boromir trusts Aragorn. If anything, the man’s loyalty to his word is intense to the point of madness. But mostly, Boromir trusts Aragorn to choose love for the people who are his. After all, is not love a choice? Love between lovers, between friends, family, fellow citizens, a leader and their people. You choose to love and to act with that love in mind. Every day it is a decision. He knows he makes it every morning; he trusts Aragorn to do the same. 

As they pass through the main gate of the first wall that encircles the city-proper Boromir’s chest tightens. He can only think: _gods gods gods he’s home._ At once a relief, the truth of the matter also terrifies: taking control of one situation necessarily means letting go of the other. For six months Boromir has dreamt of Gondor, spoke of Gondor, wished to smell the air and feel the breeze of Gondor, wanted to look upon Gondor’s trees and the White Mountains that are as family to him as Faramir and their father. Now that he is in Gondor he wishes to be in Rohan, or wherever Aragorn currently is. He wants to make sure his king is safe and whole; he wants to make sure his people are safe and whole. 

He thinks he will tear himself apart. 

Minas Tirith is called the white city but that is its walls - all seven of them that sparkle like opals in daylight. The buildings themselves, however, are built of sturdy brick but covered with facades of multi-coloured marbles - coral pinks and rich reds, soft greens and greying blues which contrasts with the pale parchment white of Ithilien limestone. Windows are peaked, ornate arches in the western style of their coastal brethren, others are in the older fashion of oculi bordered with delicate mosaics. Then, there are the open porticoes and logias supported by many colonnades, quadrented doors accented with brass and plentiful carvings. From open windows out drift curtains of linen, in wealthier houses a glimpse of damask and brocade. The scent of gardens, hidden courtyards. The sounds of fountains and someone playing a harp with a lute accompaniment. 

Above it all, standing tall at the upper most level of the city: the tower of Ecthelion. It is silver and pearl and would be glittering if there was sunlight to be had. But, it is a grey March day and so there are only clouds. 

And if this had been a normal March day, and if the strangely quiet city was full, and if normal seasonal rituals were being followed, there would be green. So much green. Everyone would be wearing something of that colour to mark the start of the ploughing season. There would be green armbands on merchants; young women with green head dresses; married women with green smocks over their dresses; young boys with green capes; old men with green leggings; men and women of all ages and ranks with hats at jaunty angles.

Winding their way up through the city Boromir pauses every so often to speak with a guard or a soldier, or a member of his father’s household who remains in the city, or a friend of a friend who is a soldier, guard, smith, clerk - something deemed essential to Gondor’s continuance. It carries on through the first few levels until Mithrandir is casting aspersions with mere looks. 

‘I can’t help it,’ Boromir says as they part from one of Faramir’s old comrades. ‘It’s how people are here - we must stop and speak for at least five minutes.’ 

‘I’m aware of Minas Tirith’s customs but we do not have time.’ 

Boromir shrugs, they have spent months away from here what matters an additional fifteen minutes? Besides, he is desperate for news of his brother beyond: _He’s out with the rangers keeping watch over Ithilien._ Surely someone can furnish him with more than that. 

Mithrandir tilts his head, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. I have no doubt Faramir will reappear with great haste now that you’re home. You two do have a tendency to travel as a set.’ 

‘We work well together,’ Boromir testily replies. 

Mithrandir hums but makes no response beyond a twitch of an eyebrow that could mean anything. Boromir bristles but does not push the conversation further. If Mithrandir means to be mysterious in his judgments then Boromir will not give him the satisfaction of asking for clarification. 

‘I’ll go in first,’ Boromir says. They’re past the fourth wall and well into the weavers and silk-masters quarter through which they must travel before coming to the merchants quarter and onward and upward through the fifth wall, sixth, seventh then, inevitably, the palace. ‘The last time you were in town there were fireworks.’ 

‘Your father is a stubborn man when he wants to be.’ 

‘And you’re not?’ Boromir asks. 

‘Not to the point of foolishness, and certainly not when it matters and the news I carried then mattered just as the news we carry now matters. But if you think it will make him more amenable to hearing reason and sense then we shall adopt your plan.’ 

Boromir turns in his saddle and looks at Mithrandir with disbelief. ‘What is this? Mithrandir going along with something I’ve suggested?’ 

‘If you’re going to hold onto the Gap of Rohan for the next so many years, young man, I will remind you of a wizard’s tendency towards swift anger.’ 

‘I’m going to tell Aragorn that you agreed to one of my plans.’ 

Mithrandir huffs, mutters about the ridiculousness that sometimes crops up in sons of Gondor. 

‘No, no,’ Boromir continues. ‘I’m going to tell him directly he arrives. And Merry and Pippin.’ 

Mithrandir’s eyes turn heavenward. Boromir lets out a _ha_ before he resettles into his more usual somber countenance. The wizard lets the silence linger for several long minutes as they approach the final wall then a terribly soft: ‘No one will believe you.’ 

‘I will tell them that I rest my honour on it.’ 

‘Faramir might,’ Mithrandir concedes. ‘And Peregrin Took, if only to satisfy the Tookish need to be contrary.’ 

And, in the midst of this brief moment of amusement, the sun shows itself from behind clouds lighting up the white and red slates of Minas Tirith’s rooftops. Glinting of gilt copper shows through on the more elaborately decorated houses. White City indeed; there is so much more colour and life to it than he remembered. He has left home for months on end before but no homecoming has felt quite like this. 

A precipice. He comes home in order to irrevocably change home.

Whatever levity of the moment that existed past the seventh gate diminishes as they arrive at the citadel. Familiar black-clad guards greet them, at first somber then in awe. They let Boromir and Gandalf pass without a word. And it is initially without words that they pass through the Court of the Fountain. 

But, as they come to the desolate sight of the line, dead tree, Mithrandir recites, ‘Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.’

‘Tall ships and tall kings, three times three,’ Boromir replies as they move forward through long corridors, glimpses of courtyards and rooms hinting at life within the stillness. At length they come to a set of tall, polished doors and Boromir knocks. 

Without sound and without sight of the doorwardens, they open. 

And everything becomes real in a way it has not been before. The world solidifies. The last six months and all they contain calcify into firm structures of experience. Of feeling. 

Here is the Great Hall of the Kings with its grand, deep set windows, the richly carved columns, all the beasts and plants he has memorized over the course of his life. It unfurls before him at once familiar and foreign. 

At the far end upon a dais sits the empty throne, empty crown, barren scepter. Beside and below, the chair of the stewards. 

Boromir takes a deep breath and steps forward. 

‘Hello father, I’ve returned.’ 


	2. Councils with Returned Kings

The chill of the Nazgûl remains with the riders as they cross plains and take the great Southern Road towards Edoras. Well, Gríma assumes the chill remains for all for it certainly remains for him.

Théoden pushes them through the remainder of the night into dawn light weak and red. How water runs after a battle when most of the fallen have landed riverside. Gríma stares at it. Thinks that fairly soon there won’t be a sunrise, with how Sauron is going. And isn’t that what he wants? A second darkness. 

By midday they are passing through the outlying farms and pastures of the capital. There are the small towns with their smithies and tinkers, tanners and butchers, cord-wrights and coopers, women washing clothes in rivulets stretching out from River Snowbourn, children making mischief in fields and laneways. The normalcy startles. Gríma isn’t sure what to think about these sights, how unremarkable they are. Don’t they know there is a war on? 

The issue, he determines, is how time has compressed and elongated itself simultaneously. How Legolas described it as they left Helm's Deep for Orthanc: _Time is a pretty song we sing ourselves and it varies in rhythm. It is both terribly fast and frighteningly slow._

The last week has been both of those things. But everyone else had their own week and their week was different to his week so of course they are washing clothes and the children are roughhousing and old men are smoking and younger men are cautiously watching the riders. 

Then, they are riding up to Edoras proper, past burial mounds and through the main gates of the city. It’s with a strange sense of detachment that he notices how sturdy the walls are, how noisome the people, how various the smells and sights. These are well known facts to him. He has lived in this city for seventeen years. There isn’t a part he doesn’t know. Yet all these things seem new and wondrous; and old and familiar. 

From the main gates the high road curves through the center of Edoras up to Meduseld and is lined on both sides with people hailing the returned riders with flowers, grass bound together into potential shapes and sigils, drink poured out to bless the earth the horses pass over. Every so often a rider will bend over to briefly grasp the hand or arm of a wife, a child, a brother, lover, parent. Gríma takes these exchanges in through the corner of his eyes for he keeps his gaze firmly on the back of the rider ahead of him. Whether Elfhelm can feel his eyes boring into his spine is unclear. It doesn’t matter. Gríma will not look elsewhere. He will not meet the eyes of the people. Only some may know the full account of what happened but it doesn’t matter, enough would know to begin the spread of such news therefore he believes he can safely assume the entire city to be appraised of one iteration or another of the events. 

The variances would amuse him if he weren’t in the midst of it. Maybe later, they will. If there is a later to be had. 

Arriving at the stairs leading to the golden hall, Gríma dismounts with the remaining riders and leads Stigr towards the stables, petting his neck and explaining that all is well. Oh yes, these horses are Éothéod horses but they won’t mind him. Horses have no sense of war and no care for the goings on humans. ‘Trust me,’ he says to Stigr, ‘you’ll make friends.’ Stigr bobs his head, blinks his soft brown eyes, and follows complacently along. 

The entrance to the royal stables is a grand affair with two large doors open and the white horse of Eorl emblazoned at the top of the archway. Descending down the arch and framing the wide doorway are smaller horses then it turns to trees and flowers as it nears the earth. Everything, as always, the bright colours and gleeful painting of Éothéod. 

Leading Stigr into the calm dimness, Gríma pauses at Sæwine’s stall. Sæwine’s leading harness remains in its usual spot. There are his brushes in a bucket by the door where he left them. 

A week ago. 

He pets Stigr’s nose and continues to whisper that all is well. Everything will be alright. It is all alright. In case the horse was uncertain. In case the horse could sense it occupied the stall of a dead brother. 

He supposes he could stall Stigr elsewhere in the city, should any be willing to have him or his horse. But, there is the issue of money. No one would give him credit, he is certain. And much was left at Orthanc - an entire life, really. He isn’t sure what of it remains, if any. All that once was - lost. 

Sucking a breath between teeth Gríma opens Sæwine’s stall and leads Stigr inside. He waits for something to happen but there only the dust in air, the huffs and knickers of other horses, the many smells of the stables, the din of enthusiastic people outside the walls. 

‘When you’re done, the king wants you.’ Gríma jerks around to spy Gundahar lounging against stall door with a piece of grass sticking out the side of his mouth. Idly he chews. 

‘I’ll be along presently.’ 

‘Bit presumptuous of you,’ Gundahar says. ‘Assuming things that were once for your use remain so.’ 

‘I’m a member of the king’s household, in case you’ve forgotten.’ Gríma unbelts the saddles and pulls it off. Shuffling past Gundahar he deposits it in the tack-room. 

‘For now,’ the young man agrees as Gríma returns to brush Stigr down. ‘But the battle is over and maybe the king will send you on your way. Perhaps that is why he wishes to see you, to tell you that you’re to leave.’ 

‘Maybe.’ 

But it is a thought that chills. What would he do on his own? He has no trade, no occupation save what he has always been: the one over-educated member of a lord’s household with a keen attention to detail. But no one in Éomarc would take him on in any such capacity. And if he were banished from Éomarc what then? What is an Éothéod who is no longer allowed in Éothéod? 

‘Or maybe he’ll give you some paltry job,’ Gundahar continues, eyes like needles. ‘You can clean the latrines or shovel horseshit.’ 

‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ 

‘What? No witty retort, Wyrmtunga?’ 

Pausing, Gríma turns to face the guard with his blousy, almost russet hair and stupid grin. ‘I save my wit for those who have the good sense to appreciate it. A group of people you are not a part of, nor are ever likely to be.’ 

With a sneer Gundahar takes the grass out of his mouth and flicks it towards Gríma who watches it fall, limply, between them. Then Stigr steps on it. 

‘Well?’ Gríma prompts. He makes a run-along motion. ‘Go play messenger boy for the king. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.’ 

Gundahar gropes for something to say and upon giving up he sneers a second time before stalking off. Gríma watches this performance then turns back to Stigr with a fleeting smirk. The world may turn upside down, an entire life may be shucked off in cold Isengard stables, gods may appear in mist, trees may move of their own accord, wizards may gain and lose their powers, but, at the end of the day, there are some things that will never change and for that he is thankful.

Arriving at the doors of Meduseld Gríma feels his heart clamber up his throat before he pushes it down, telling himself that there is nothing to be concerned about. If Théoden wished him dead, he would be already dead. If Théoden wished him banished, he would be already banished. Weak comforts, but he repeats them regardless. 

Grimbold greets him at the doors and says, ‘No weapons before the king. You know the rules.’ Gríma purses lips but does as asked, handing over sword and knife. ‘No way to divest you of your spellcraft is there?’ 

‘If there was, would I advertise it?’ 

Grimbold mirthlessly smiles, ‘For the sake of your skin you might.’ 

‘I’m well versed in saving it. I’m still alive, aren’t I?’ 

‘For now,’ Grimbold agrees with a tilt of his head. ‘But there is still more war ahead of us, yet.’ The doors open and the younger man leads the familiar way through the hall towards the king’s chambers. ‘So, what did Saruman promise you?’ 

‘My life,’ Gríma supplies easily. ‘And oodles of money.’ 

‘You had both here, I believe.’ 

‘To be sure. Do you know how Sauron kills leaders of cities who resist him?’ 

They pause by a set of ornate doors, through which lies Théoden’s private council chambers and past them, his private rooms. Gundahar stands guard casting glowers in Gríma’s direction. 

Grimbold shakes his head. No, he doesn’t. Pray tell, how is it effected? 

‘Boiling oil.’ 

‘They are dropped in?’ Grimbold asks with some horror. 

‘No. It’s poured into your ears. He does it to the leader, whether it be prince or king or steward, and all the nobles and all the members of their households. A full purge of the ruling class. Sauron marches up here and we put up a fight, you can expect the same treatment. If not worse.’ 

Grimbold frowns, glances at Gundahar then back, ‘You can’t be serious.’ 

‘I’m always serious.’ 

‘You can’t be telling the truth, rather.’ 

‘I am. Ask anyone from the east. My mother has a decent handful of stories that would turn your pretty hair white. Now, I believe the king…’ 

Grimbold coughs, _right,_ and gives a perfunctory nod to Gundahar who knocks and states their business. Upon the sign of _come_ from inside, he opens the door for Grimbold who steps in to announce their presence.

The king’s rooms are lit by reed lamps and the central fire. Around the king’s table sit the usual culprits of Erkenbrand, Cynric, and Éomer. Alongside them is Torald, Thane of the north Wold who merely lifts an eyebrow at Gríma, and Orvar, a chieftain from the south east-emnet. 

Having given his bow Gríma says, ‘My lord, you wished to speak with me?’ 

Théoden inclines his head and motions to a chair. 

‘I have a question about the Oath and my advisors here are of differing views. As you were the former-law speaker, and we have not had time to choose one anew, I thought to briefly consult with you.’

‘I thank you, my lord.’ A glance across the table tells Gríma what the others present think of this plan. Save for Torald. But that’s because he’s family, if distantly, which makes matters a little more difficult. 

‘Eorl made the oath with Cirion,’ Théoden begins, ‘and that is the basis for the creation of Éomarc therefore, if we were to break the oath, that could be interpreted as a dissolution of our country - does that logic follow?’ 

‘That is an argument that could be made, my lord, certainly. I think it depends on how one views the vow and the exchange of land for services rendered. We came to Gondor’s defense and in return they gave us land, whether they had a right to gift it is a question that could complicate the matter.’ (A sharp laugh from Cynric and Éomer smirks.) ‘Are you asking what would happen if you did not answer Gondor’s call?’

Théoden makes no response. 

‘I believe it can be soundly argued that the oath is more a vow,’ Gríma cautiously adds. ‘Gondor may call it an oath, but Éomarc’s interpretation has always been that it’s a vow. Since the day it was taken it has been thus.’ 

A wry smile from the king. ‘I believe Gondor would reply that they have a piece of paper which says that it is an oath.’ 

‘How nice for them,’ Éomer mutters. 

‘Yes,’ Gríma hums. ‘Isn’t it just? It is very nice for Gondor that they have set things up in such a way that our oral tradition will never hold water against their written records.’ 

‘Why-ever not?’ Torald asks. 

‘They believe our approach to be unreliable and untrustworthy. Best write it all down, they say.’ 

‘And a man who writes cannot lie.’ 

Gríma gives his cousin a polite smile. ‘It has ever been the way of Gondor to believe written word superior to the spoken. They would write down the world if they could. But that is neither here nor there for the moment.’ To Théoden Gríma says, ‘My short answer is that nothing would happen, my lord. Because the vow has no stipulations for breaking it.’

‘Yes it does,’ Éomer snaps. ‘We’ll become accursed.’ 

‘I would argue that this was a symbolic gesture on Eorl’s part rather than literal.’ 

‘Do you know that for certain?’ 

Gríma shrugs, ‘It has been broken in the past, albeit not so directly as what is currently contemplated, and here stands the house of Eorl and the people of the Marc. We were not struck down by plague or pestilence or fire. Oaths are stronger and breaking them has greater consequences. Vows, though? Unless stipulated: _should this vow be broken Gondor can reclaim Éomarc from Éothéod,_ then no that won’t happen.’

Théoden muses on this before adding, ‘And the land was a gift for services rendered which I suppose would make it legally separate from the provisions and expectations of future aid detailed in the vow.’

‘Quite so, my lord. Nothing legally would happen if you broke the vow, save that the vow would be ended.’ 

‘And in terms of Éomarc’s relations with Gondor?’ 

‘They might sour considerably. The vow forms the basis of how Gondor understands and interprets our people and our country. But that vow is not the basis for us. Éothéod exists with or without the vow and with or without Éomarc. But Éomarc cannot exist without Éothéod.’ Gríma pauses, taps his thigh in thought. ‘If we’re to be philosophical for a brief moment, I would say that oaths, vows, and treaties are a mechanism through which we, as countries, relate to one another. Their role is to confirm relationships, not existence. Sure, the Oath of Eorl could be interpreted in such a way that implies that, without the oath, Éomarc would not exist. But it would be a fundamental, willful misunderstanding of the purpose of the vow--’

‘No to mention,’ Éomer interrupts, ‘it would be a logistical nightmare and not something Lord Denethor would do, right?’ A glance at Gríma who shrugs. Éomer takes this as confirmation and adds, ‘Nor would Lord Boromir.’

‘This is all as I thought,’ Théoden says. ‘And the possibility of open hostilities?’

‘No,’ Gríma shakes his head, ‘well, not at the moment.’ A pause as he works through thoughts on the ranger-king. Gondor is a very monarchical land, in a way Éothéod is not. Oh, the people do love the House of Eorl, but Éothéod were independent tribes before the settling of Éomarc and much of that independence is well remembered by the Thanes and Chieftains. Torald is one such Thane who likes to remind the crown of the Wold’s rights and privileges every once in a while. But, it is this very lack of tampering and browbeating that ensures the Thanes’ and Chieftains’ love of Eorl.

‘What does that mean?’ 

‘Assuming we all live, my lord. Assuming Éomarc and Gondor continue to exist as they do now and,’ a glance at the closed door, ‘assuming Isiildur’s heir ascends the throne - well, Gondor may become a little, how shall I put it?’ 

‘Delicately.’ 

‘Ambitious.’ (Torald snorts, Erkenbrand raises an eyebrow). ‘Keen to relive their more glorious past, shall we say.’ 

‘Expansive, you mean,’ Théoden wryly replies. 

‘I suppose, at the end of the day, I would say that Éomarc and Gondor need to have a conversation about the vow. With a new king who has never ruled, and some factionalism that is bound to break out in the Gondor court for at least a short while after he resumes his throne, I think the optimum time for us to raise the matter is directly after the war ends. Leverage the inevitable chaos. That would be my advice, my lord.’

Théoden chews this over and Gríma waits. Then, Théoden laughs. A short one and a quiet one, but it is a laugh. 

‘Leverage the inevitable chaos,’ Théoden hums. ‘I’m adding that to my collection of Gríma-lines.’ 

Gríma balks. The king’s collection of what?

‘I think my favourite remains: _Isn’t that what money is for?_ We were speaking about the role of the king in executions.’

‘A stance which I maintain, my lord.’ Gríma thinks about launching into that old chestnut but stops himself. This brief moment, where things feel the way they used to, does not mean anything. It certainly does not mean he should take liberties. The calculating back part of his mind thinks more than one person can leverage post-war chaos to their benefit. What a small speck of hope there is of reclaiming at least some of his old position, or something better than latrine service man. But it is not nothing. If he plays his cards right. 

Théoden levels a steady gaze at Gríma then says to the table, ‘We’ll have a word alone.’ Éomer looks to complain but his uncle holds a hand up, ‘Ten minutes, sister-son. He won’t bewitch me, or what have you, in ten minutes.’ 

Éomer glowers, mutters: _We can but hope that is the case_ _,_ but duly follows the other lords from the room. With the lords gone the chamber feels suddenly large and empty and all too quiet. On shadowed walls hang tapestries. The archways of doors - to the hall, to Théoden’s personal rooms, to another set of chambers that once belonged to his wife - well decorated and with flickering light the animals sometimes seem to move. 

Sliding back his chair, Théoden crosses the room to the sideboard where he takes up an elegant pitcher and two glasses. 

‘We have not had a chance to properly speak,’ he says, pouring them both wine. 

‘No, my lord.’ 

Théoden’s gaze is heavy and full of meaning. Gríma gingerly takes a sip and waits for the inevitable: _Why did you do it? Why did you return?_ But the questions don’t come. Théoden merely stares for a moment longer before he stands again, with glass in hand, and takes a turn about the room. 

‘How did you do it?’ Théoden finally asks. ‘Whatever it was you did to me - how was it achieved?’ 

‘It was done through spellcraft and, well, poisons.’ 

‘Very slow acting ones.’ 

‘They weren’t meant to slay but to contain. If I may be bold, my lord, had the desire been for your death you would be dead.’ 

Théoden snorts, takes a sip of wine. ‘It sounds like seiðr to me. Your power being words that make illusions, bring forgetfulness, teach a man to un-know himself, not to mention the making of potions and poisons. That’s seiðrcræft.’ 

Gríma does not answer. Théoden gives him a fleeting, if cool, smile. 

‘I see why you were happy to let others name what you do for you. Galdorcræft and tröllcræft are more appropriate if a man is to do some form of spellwork. Well, you were never one for doing things in a traditional way.’ 

Gríma ducks his head, ‘My lord.’ 

‘And the possession?’ 

‘I didn’t mean for that --’ 

‘No, I don’t think you did.’ Gríma’s brow furrows. Théoden continues, ‘We were in the great hall, Gandalf arrived, I remember that. And I remember you two doing your usual spitting at each other. Then, suddenly, I was adjacent to myself and someone else was in me.’ Théoden returns to his chair, leaning forward he pours himself more wine. ‘Saruman, of course. And perhaps he didn’t say anything, but I somehow knew that this was unplanned. At least on your part. As in, I knew Saruman knew you didn’t know.’ 

Gríma swallows and nods. He does not trust himself to speak. 

‘And my son?’ Théoden asks into the silence. ‘He was brought back alive, I understand. Did you murder him?’ 

Gríma sits back, fingers gripping the wine like a tether in a storm. He wants to disappear into the chair. Mutely he shakes his head. 

‘But he died in the night,’ Théoden says. 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘Of his wounds, my lord.’ 

‘And if he hadn’t been so gravely wounded?’ 

The room is too warm and he cannot think for the heat and the weight of the king’s eyes. He wishes Théoden didn’t look so gravely mournful. He wishes Théoden didn’t look like he was disappointed. 

‘Well?’ Théoden asks. ‘Or shall I infer?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

‘Yes I shall make inferences, or yes you would have killed him had his wounds not taken him first.’ 

‘The latter,’ Gríma’s voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper. There are logs popping in the fire that are louder than he is. 

‘And my nephew, was he to be next?’ 

‘Lord Éomer?’ 

‘I’ve only the one.’ 

‘I - I suppose so,’ Gríma says. ‘That would have been logical. Sort of. Well, it depends.’ 

‘Are you telling me that you didn’t have a plan?’ 

‘I had a plan, my lord, it is only - well, I realized Saruman and I were operating at cross purposes. But that wasn’t right until the end, when it became clear there were other things in play that I knew nothing about at the time. Of course, it’s all clear to me now.’ A sly expression, ‘Saruman was after the ring and wished to consolidate his position. I didn’t know this and thought we had more time. And he gave me to understand that my job was to merely undermine the government and overall leadership, not eradicate the house of Eorl.’

‘Wouldn’t one necessitate the other?’ 

‘Eradicating the house of Eorl would be sufficient but it is not necessary to achieve such ends. And it would be too drastic, leading to unintended ramifications. Which is what I told him, but he did not heed my advice. He never quite managed to understand the temperament and character of our people.’ 

Théoden hums to himself, taps the rim of his glass. Seated here, washed and dressed in finery, the king looks almost young. As he did when Gríma first arrived in Edoras and the world was simpler. Or, perhaps, it is that he hadn’t yet discovered the complexities. 

‘I see,’ Théoden says. ‘And the spellwork?’ 

‘The spellwork built on present insecurities,’ Gríma replies. ‘Fear of aging, of no longer being fit to rule, of infirmity, senility, forgetting who you were and are. It grows those fears and convinces the person of their reality and so you become what you think yourself to be.’ 

Théoden lifts his brow and purses lips, a sign of attention and thought. And gods does this remind Gríma of what it was to have the confidence of the king. There is a part that would do almost anything to unpick his ruined stitchwork but another part tells him: There is no undoing it, so why try? They war with each other. His cunning side watches with interest. 

He has never felt in such disarray before. 

He continues his explanation. The candles and runes. How language works, the difficulty presented in Théoden’s mother tongue being Westron when Gríma has only ever worked in Éorléden. He tells Théoden of their conversations, of what he remembers from the last three years. Running out of things to explain he pauses, waits for some denouement.

But it doesn’t arrive. 

Instead, Théoden merely tilts his head in interest and consideration. He clearly thinks a few things over, briefly loses himself in a memory, then returns to the present to say: ‘We discussed memories. I think. I believe you said that there are things you think may have happened but you’ve lost them.’ 

‘Oh, yes, my lord.’ 

‘And I asked if they were good things and you said maybe then I asked if they were bad and you said _who wishes to remember those_?’ 

Gríma says that yes, that conversation did happen. But he couldn’t say what it was he was thinking of at the time. Something and nothing, most likely. To which Théoden replies: ‘You rarely say nothing when you speak. Except when you’re doing your apologetic servant routine, then it’s all air.’ Then, he seemingly alights on a new point and adds, ‘Yrmenlaf always spoke highly of you. Which, judging by your stunned silence, you did not know. He liked you prodigiously, though he never told me why, exactly.’

Gríma whispers: ‘He said he liked people who reminded him of pickle brine.’ 

A laugh erupts from Théoden, startling them both. Smiling a true smile Théoden says, ‘That does sound like Yrmenlaf’ before he drops the inevitable: _You returned?_ and waits for Gríma to reply. Gríma is deathly exhausted of this conversation. But it is a minor blessing Théoden held off this long before asking. 

‘I’m a coward who didn’t want to die painfully and slowly. I made a bed and I couldn’t lie in it. So I fled.’ He pauses then adds, ‘As you know my lord, it is what I do: run away from things.’

‘That is true,’ Théoden replies evenly. ‘You do a lot of running. It never seems to get you very far, at least from where I am standing.’ 

‘It isn’t for a lack of trying.’ 

Théoden raises an eyebrow. ‘I suppose that is commendable. If in a twisted sort of fashion. But you have returned, and even if it was cowardice that was the motivator, it got you here. To my mind that is what matters. Getting out of the darkness and into the twilight, at the very least. May I assume that to be the case?’ 

‘If it pleases you to do so, my lord.’ 

Théoden drums fingers on the table, ‘We are looking at a war that will be difficult and has the possibility of being quite long. Indeed, one could argue it’s been ongoing for at least the past fifty to sixty years. Most of my memory is mired with it. You were certainly born in the midst of it. Anyway, I’m still considering your weregild and, as I stated before, your actions and decisions in the coming weeks and months will inform what it is I am to do with you. I appreciate your honesty here, for what it is worth. I certainly did not expect you to truthfully answer several of my questions. 

‘My lord.’ 

‘You see, Gríma, I don’t need you to be a nice or pleasant person. I just need you to be a good and somewhat truthful one. I remain ever the pragmatic realist and so I shall not hope for entire honesty from you. And you’ve always had a loose interpretation of the truth anyway, in my experience.’

Gríma blinks. This is wholly unexpected. ‘I fail to see the difference, my lord.’ 

‘You can be a nasty piece of work and still make the right decisions when it matters most. That’s what I need from you. That’s all I ask. You can be as bitter and resentful as you want, you can hate us all. Of course, I would be happier if that weren’t the case but we cannot have perfection in our lives. But, at the end of the day, I need to know that you will make the right choice and that I can, more or less, trust what you are telling me.’

‘But niceness and goodness--’

‘I assume Saruman was very nice. To you, at least.’ 

Gríma nods. For a time, sure. _Terribly_ nice. 

‘Would you call him a good man? No, I wouldn’t either. And Gandalf, would you call him warm and friendly?’

‘Certainly not to me.’

‘Yet is he a good man?’

‘For a given value of goodness.’

Théoden shrugs. ‘There you go. Do what you will with it. And, at the end of the day, what did Saruman call us? Brigands who drink in the reek while our children roll in the dirt with dogs. I suspect that irked you as much as it irked me.’

‘My lord.’ 

‘Well, make the right choices, if only to spite him. Prove him wrong. He called you a worm, in the Westron sense, give him one of those colourful rude northern gestures of yours and be better than he could ever hope to be. I’ve been informed of your theory on spite-based actions. Apply it now.’

‘Éomer talks too much,’ Gríma mutters. 

Théoden ignores this. ‘Words have power, so I’m going to tell you that inside of you is someone who is capable of doing good. Perhaps if I say it often enough you’ll come to believe it. Or do I have to say it in spell form?’

‘You can’t spellwork someone into goodness. You can’t change their fundamental nature.’

‘And what if I believe your fundamental nature to be good?’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ Gríma snaps. Going pale he bows his head. ‘My apologies my lord, I didn’t mean to say that--’ he continues on; Théoden sits silent. 

As Gríma runs out of words he looks up at his king. Théoden’s chin rests on his hand and he is evidently musing over something. As if noticing the silence Théoden appraises Gríma with expectation. ‘I leave the decision up to you, of course. But the door is open, my old advisor. It is up to you if you choose to come back inside.’

Gríma opens his mouth then closes it. He does this several more times but cannot think of anything to say. Well, nothing beyond: _This is all nonsense. Everything you’ve said is idiotic nonsense._ Because that isn’t an appropriate response to one’s king. 

A knock disturbs them before Gríma can manage speech and Éomer appears in the doorway saying that the king is needed. A mildly confused glance at Gríma who isn’t sure what expression must be drawn across his face but he suspects it must be a strange one. 

‘He’s in turmoil,’ Théoden explains without explaining anything. Standing, he taps Gríma’s chair. ‘Well, there is much to do and precious little time to do it in.’ 

Out in the main hall there are people and noise and people and animals and people and animals and noise and people. Gríma almost trips over a dog as he desperately tries to make for the door to escape everything. Rounding a column towards the outer aisle which allows for a more discreet exit, a hand grabs his shoulder. A firm grip. Gríma is turned around to face Uhtric, Háma’s brother in law. Gríma’s blood drains from his face, though he doubts there would be any visible change. 

‘There’s the little traitor,’ Uhtric says with unkind eyes. ‘My sister would have a word with you.’ 

Gwenyr. The last person Gríma wishes to see. 

Háma’s widow is a tall, silver haired woman who normally wears smile lines around her mouth and eyes. But, at this moment, she is made of such formidable anger. While she never much cared for him, Gríma believes that at this moment, if she could get away with it, she would jab a hair pin straight through his eye. 

‘I have heard how my husband died,’ her voice deep. 

Gríma nods. 

‘I have heard how you are to blame.’ 

He nods again. 

‘I have heard how our king has decided that you are to serve out some form of weregild that does not involve your deserved execution or exile.’ 

‘Our king is generous,’ he says, for something to say. ‘I’m aware that I’m undeserving.’ 

‘You say that but I don’t believe you.’ She eyes him the same way she would eye dirt or something particularly foul. It is a peculiar expression that reminds him not a little of Saruman. Though, Gwenyr is a kinder person than the white wizard. She would just kill him. ‘My husband only ever treated you with kindness and respect.’ 

Gríma jerks his head in agreement. 

‘Do you have nothing to say for yourself?’ 

‘I am terribly sorry for your loss,’ it rings hollow. He barrels on because he must. ‘More than I can say. I -’ he stops, uncertain of where to go next. Words escape, become mist, he cannot grasp them. ‘I’m truly very sorry.’ 

‘What? No long speeches?’ She sneers. ‘Or do we not matter enough for such niceties? He may not have been a lord but he was a good man.’ 

‘He was.’ 

‘He was one of the best.’ 

‘He was.’ 

‘And you took him from me.’ In a sudden movement she lunges forward, Gríma darts back, bumping against the column. Before she can touch him Uhtric catches her by the arms. Turning, she sucks in a gasp then sobs into his chest. Shaken and embarrassed, Gríma watches as she weeps. 

‘You will get no forgiveness from any of us,’ Uhtric hisses, hugging his sister. 

‘It is very good that I do not look for it and would never expect it.’ 

‘Have you no remorse?’ 

‘That isn’t the same thing.’ He doesn’t think about Háma’s body and how everyone in Helm’s Deep looked at death and then buried the remains. With a stilted bow, Gríma turns and walks from the scene, ignoring the eyes of onlookers. The servants, the riders, their families, the ranger-king who apparently overheard the entire exchange. 

Once outside, he lets out a shaky breath then darts around the side of the mead hall. With the cool air everything relaxes. The conversations recede, the heat in his chest and neck decamps, and he manages to slow his heart to a reasonable pace. 

The skyline is thin, for there is only darkness to be seen at the horizon where Mordor bleeds into the heavens. It oozes out, a slow, inevitable crawl. Leaning against the back of Meduseld, Gríma sinks to the ground. Plucking a stalk of Horsegrass, Gríma twirls it between fingers. Watches the sky for something to watch. Closing his eyes, he rests his head back and wonders, not for the first time, how it all came to this. 


	3. Of sharp air and disappointments

The two shards of the horn of Gondor fall and skitter along marble. Boromir stares at them, the stark white of bone against the grey white of marble. Then he isn’t looking at them anymore because his father is in front of him tall, grave, and wholly relieved. 

‘My boy,’ Denethor says. He swallows. Presses his palm to Boromir’s cheek before pulling him forward into a hug. ‘My son. You’re alive. You’re alive.’ 

‘I’m sorry to have been cause of concern and grief,’ Boromir whispers. He does not trust his voice. He had thought himself in control and capable of rising to this occasion but it seems not. His father’s relief, his father’s hope and sudden excitement only brings up shame. Buckets of it from the well that never seems to empty when he stands in front of Denethor knowing he is about to disappoint. 

‘No fault of yours I am sure,’ Denethor pulls back, looking Boromir over. ‘We heard the horn sound off thirteen or fourteen days ago then your brother found several boats with kit in them. One with the broken horn. Naturally, we feared the worst.’ 

‘We were seeing off some orcs of Saruman’s but it’s all part of the tale I owe you.’ 

Denethor pats his cheek again and does another once over. It reminds Boromir of when he was a boy and would run off from lessons, get into scrapes with lads down by the tanners and tinkers, then get hauled home by the citadel guard. His father would hold him by the shoulders and look him over to make sure there was no lasting damage. 

Taking a step back from Boromir, Denethor takes notice of Mithrandir off to the side, swathed in grey and leaning heavily upon his staff. ‘I know better than to expect good news from you, old friend,’ Denethor sighs. He does not sneer when he says  _ old friend _ but he is not terribly warm, either. 

It takes not inconsiderable effort for Boromir to resist the urge to roll his eyes. This is one of the down sides of bringing Mithrandir within spitting range of Denethor, it leads to inevitable fights. Two cats in a bag at the best of times. 

Mithrandir bows in the gracious manner he reserves for lords in their halls and bids good day and good health to Denethor, son of Ecthelion, and Lord of Gondor. Denethor takes the display in with an ironic expression. Beneath breath he says: ‘And if you had your way it would not be me who is lord of this country.’ 

‘You know that to be untrue,’ Mithrandir replies. 

Boromir glances around at servants hovering along the walls, watching with avid attention. Several advisers and councillors linger beside columns, uncertain if they should make their presence known. Leaning in, Boromir whispers that they should perhaps speak privately. He and Mithrandir have much to tell but it would be best told away from the remaining eyes of the court. 

‘Of course,’ Denethor brushes hand through grey hair. ‘Anyway, it’s time to break our fast. Have you yet eaten? No? Good, we’ll break bread and you can tell me of your journey and all that has happened these past six months.’ 

Leading the way from the Great Hall of the Kings, through corridors, then a series of rooms, Denethor takes his time. He pauses every so often to look at Boromir, as if seeing him for the first time. Sometimes, he reaches out to squeeze his arm with a fleeting smile. 

‘When the news first came from Ithilien of your possible death the city was distraught,’ Denethor says, stopping for a moment at several large windows that look over the southward side of Minas Tirith. His profile is sharp, with pointed nose and keen eyes. Often Denethor’s dark, piercing gaze is stern or morose or, sometimes, deeply contemplative; rarely is it warm. But when that is managed, when warmth is kindled, it is like coals bursting forth with light. 

‘Morale sank immediately,’ his father continues. ‘But, now that you are returned to us, at least some hope has been restored. I don’t abide by omens and signs but there is a small part of me that believes this to be a good tiding. One that may even change the tide of war.’ 

They walk on. 

Coming to Denethor’s favourite council chamber, food and drink are ordered and the fire coaxed into good behaviour. Smaller than most other chambers, and wood panelled instead of the usual stone, it holds a round table circled with high back chairs. There is also a long, heavily carved sideboard for food, drink and other items necessary for small council work, abacus, papers, pen and ink. 

‘Well,’ Denethor says, taking his seat. ‘Tell me all that has happened, from the beginning.’ 

And Boromir does, for the most part. He glosses over bits that he feels aren’t relevant, or bits that he thinks Mithrandir would not want shared, therefore there is no mention of his fall in Moria or his return in Fangorn.

‘And the purpose of this journey? I am unclear how you came to be involved in this terribly vague mission.’ Eyes flick to Mithrandir then back. Boromir falters. He has not spoken of the ring to anyone outside of the Fellowship. Its truth lodges in his throat. He takes a bite of breakfast to buy time. 

‘It was a grave matter, but the details are not relevant,’ Mithrandir says. 

A flash of a smile as Denethor sits back, fingers drumming on chair arm, his gaze level at the wizard. ‘It must have been quite something, though, to result in such a queer collection of people traveling together. And so few. But I suppose stealth is warranted in these times.’ 

‘Indeed. Stealth and speed were to be our allies.’ 

‘And how did they serve you?’ 

‘Well,’ Boromir interjects. ‘For a little while. We knew we wouldn’t be able to stay hidden for long but it bought us time, which was the aim.’ 

Denethor concedes this with a slight nod. ‘And to what purpose was this fellowship to serve?’ 

Boromir eats more bread. Hopes Mithrandir will take this question. Mithrandir seems disinclined. 

‘There was some private business several members had to attend to,’ Boromir finally says. ‘I happened to travel with them as we were heading in the same direction for at least part of the journey.’ 

‘Was there an oath of secrecy taken? Is that why you will not be forthright with me? It’s very unlike you.’ 

‘Sometime to that effect.’ 

‘I see.’ Denethor studies Boromir for a long moment before reaching forward and pulling more grapes onto his plate. ‘Tell me more of your companions. You mentioned an elf and a dwarf, why are they not with you? Or did they return to their own lands?’ 

‘Gimli son of Glóin-’ 

‘Prince of the Lonely Mountain from Dáin’s family?’ 

‘Yes. And Legolas son of Thranduil of Mirkwood.’ At this Denethor lifts an eyebrow, says that he wasn’t aware Thranduil and his people had much to do with the world unless large stores of treasure were involved. ‘He is a steady and loyal companion. Very...elvish, but steady and loyal. And they are with King Théoden. We were all at Helm’s Deep together and separated shortly thereafter.’ 

‘And the halflings? I take it they went some way to answering the riddle.’ 

Boromir nods, ‘Sort of. There are four of them - like Gimli and Legolas, two remain with Théoden.’ 

‘And the other two?’ 

‘Became separated from us at Amon Hen, when we were attacked and had to set the boats off to try and deter pursuit. I don’t know what has become of them.’ 

A lull as everyone takes a few minutes to eat. Denethor’s face betrays nothing for he is has become cool, removed, and calculating. It is always strange to Boromir, even after all these years, how father disappears into steward. A new face wrought from the old so everything is the same in appearance but the man within has altered. 

‘Who was the ninth?’ 

‘I beg pardon, father?’ 

‘Who was your ninth companion. You said there were nine and I’ve heard of eight, including you and Mithrandir.’ 

‘Oh, no one in particular. A ranger who happened to be around and offered to be our guide as he knew the land and the people for a portion of the journey.’ 

‘And does this ranger have a name?’ 

‘Strider,’ Boromir supplies, silently thanking the gods for Sam’s penchant of never using Aragorn’s given name. ‘I’m not sure what his actual name is, even if he has one. I assume he must.’ 

‘And where is he from?’ 

‘Not sure. Bree maybe? Somewhere in the north.’ 

Denethor gives a long, slow nod. Then, with careful disinterest, ‘They breed a very capable sort of ranger in Bree, it seems. If he saw you this far. I take it he’s also with Théoden?’ 

‘He is. But, he’s a ranger and has a habit of wandering off into the bush sometimes.’ 

‘So you can’t say for certain.’ 

‘No, father.’ 

Denethor seems to pursue something silently for a moment before he turns to Mithrandir. ‘And what brought you into this grave matter my son is disinclined to elaborate upon? I presume you have some ill news to bestow upon me?’ 

‘Oh, you know, I was passing through and thought I’d come along,’ Mithrandir breezily replies before his features become sombre. ‘But it is just as well for things are about to become more dire than ever before. Sauron is marshalling sooner than expected and moving faster than anticipated.’ 

‘Yes, I am aware. Two days back I sent the red arrow of the Oath to Théoden and lit the beacons for the west and south of our lands. Already men from the Outlands are arriving. I expect Imrahil any day now—’ 

Boromir perks up. ‘Uncle Imrahil's coming?’ 

‘He wouldn’t miss a battle if his life depended on it,’ Denethor mutters. ‘He does so enjoy saving the day.’ Then with brighter air: ‘I would never turn away his services, though. And Imrahil brings cavalry with him, which is good. We’ve had no use for horses yet, but there will be cause to be thankful for them in the future I am certain. And speaking of horses, Théoden has suffered losses?’ 

Mithrandir, with graceful air, recounts the recent events in Rohan in greater detail than what Boromir initially provided. The battle of Helm’s Deep (though, still without mention of forest or old gods), the incursions of orcs from the north and east, Saruman’s treachery, about which Denethor is unsurprised. 

‘I thought him up to something a few years ago,’ he explains. ‘But, I put it down to my being overcautious and suspicious. Well, it goes to show: sometimes it is best to trust one’s own judgement and not always cede to advisors. How is Théoden’s, by the by? I owe him a letter or three. I’m sure he’s just shy of an apoplexy over all of this. Meddlesome man.’ 

Boromir coughs, ‘He’s the one who betrayed them to Saruman.’ 

This catches Denethor by surprise and he leans back in seat with eyebrows lifted. _‘Well,_ there’s a thing.’ 

‘You didn’t see that?’ Mithrandir asks. Boromir glances between them and frowns. There are always at least two hundred other things happening when Mithrandir and Denethor speak, but this morning it is worse than usual.

‘No. That was not known to me. How interesting.’ Denethor ponders for a long moment then gives an elegant shrug. ‘It is no matter, though poor Théoden. That would be a blow for him. Was nothing done to prevent it?’ 

‘It wasn’t known until fairly recently,’ Mithrandir says. ‘I was only made aware of it last September. I believe Lord Éomer had suspicions for a year or so prior to that.’ 

‘And Lord Éomer did not think to buy him back?’ 

‘That isn’t how the Rohirrim work. As you well know.’ 

‘Foolish of them. Men like Gríma are the easiest to return to the fold. You sit them down, ask how much they are being paid, then double it. And in doing so you now have someone with an inside view of the enemy. But,’ he waves his hand. ‘It is as you say, not how the Rohirrim do things. Now, I know there is more you wish to council on, since bestowing advice is your favourite activity, but I wish to speak with my son in private. Someone will see you to your room. I will send for you when Boromir and I are done.’ 

Mithrandir purses his lips, looks between Denethor and Boromir, then heaves a sigh, mutters about obstinate rulers, and stalks from the room. 

The door closes.

Boromir, ‘He’s been invaluable, you know.’ 

Denethor lifts an eyebrow of:  _ and that matters how? _ ‘Now,’ Denethor sighs. ‘Tell me truthfully about this secret mission of yours that Mithrandir doesn’t want me to know about. Isildur’s bane, to my mind, can mean only one thing.’ 

Boromir holds his breath, thinks to stall, then thinks that to be daft. Why should his father not know about the ring? Why should this be kept from the Steward of Gondor? It seems a madness. Would that not be something Denethor ought to know? How can a leader make the right decisions if they are denied all of the available information? And, not the least, to Boromir it is a small sliver of hope and he believes everyone could use as much of that as they can get. 

Besides, his father clearly already knows. Denethor’s eyes are pins and knives how they can hold a man down and dissect him. Boromir is used to this weight and does not mind the flaying. 

Boromir exhales. 

‘Yes, it’s the ring. I’ve seen it.’ Then, he explains the council in full, and the purpose of their journey, the reason for Saruman’s orcs coming after them. Why he is worried for Frodo and Sam, alone with no protection and carrying the fate of the world between them. But he does not speak of himself and the ring. He does not say that it is for the best they left before he became something Denethor would not recognize. 

He has always worked to be a good and dutiful son. 

Denethor’s impartial face, the stillness of the room, the cool, cool eyes make him think he has failed. 

‘Isildur’s bane is in the care of two halflings?’ Denethor drops the question into the stillness of the room. It sits there, full of judgement. 

‘Yes. They’re to take it to Mordor and destroy it.’ Gods this sounds weak. 

‘You mean they’re to take it to Mordor, promptly get captured, and inadvertently return the ring to its master. The ring wants to be found. That is the core of its nature.’ 

‘There is nothing else for it.’ 

‘Of course there is,’ Denethor snaps, suddenly standing. He takes a short pace in front of the fire then pauses to warm his hands, his back to Boromir who remains rigid in his chair. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, but he knew this was going to happen. He knew what to expect and tells himself: At least it isn’t Faramir in this chair. 

‘The ring can be used by those who have the strength of will to dominate it,’ Denethor continues. Turning around he leans against the mantle. ‘Are you certain the halflings had it when they broke away from the group? No one else could possibly have it in their possession? Not the elf or dwarf? Not Mithrandir?’ 

‘Yes, I’m certain.’ Boromir senses Denethor’s skepticism so adds, ‘Trust me, father. None of the remaining companions have it.’

‘Did you not think we could make use of it? Did that not occur to you? Or have you become like your brother, enamoured with the meddling of wizards and elves?’ 

A flash of anger but Boromir bites it back. He reminds himself that he knows these games. He knows how Denethor works. ‘I did think that, father, but I have seen enough to know that I was wrong. No good can come from the ring. The wielder might think they are doing good, might want only the best for the people of Middle Earth, but from the ring can come only evil.’ 

‘If the one who wielded it had strength of mind, spirit, and purpose, it could be done. Isildur did it.’ 

‘And it betrayed him.’ 

Denethor’s eyes flash, ‘It did, but he was weak, in the end. Which is unsurprising for that family, all things considered. This will spell our doom, Boromir. You were meant to bring home hope and all you have to hand is despair.’ 

‘If they destroy it -’ 

‘If!’ 

‘If Frodo and Sam can destroy the ring then Sauron will be defeated. There is no other way forward. Even if we had the ring and ability to wield it, we might vanquish him for a time but his soul, the very fibre of his being, is tied to it. So long as the ring lives, he lives. Our doom and ruin is secured on all paths save one.’ 

Denethor goes to object but swallows whatever words he had thought to form. Boromir waits for further admonishment but it does not come. Instead, Denethor deeply sighs, returns to his chair and reaches forward to grasp Boromir’s hand. 

‘I am sorry, my son,’ he says. ‘I know you have done your best. There are forces in this world greater than you or I. Sometimes they alter a path we thought to be straight. I didn’t mean to snap and snarl in such a manner. Let us speak of lighter things for an hour before I call back Mithrandir. I’ve never seen an elvish realm, tell me of Lothlórien then Moria, that once great and glorious city. There are questions I have from some old tales and I wonder if you will be able to answer them.’ 

Later that night, Boromir finds himself in a small alcove facing east towards Mordor. The sky is not its usual velvet, there are no stars pricked out in silver and pearl, there is nothing but the foul breath of Mordor slowly flowing over the land. 

‘There will be no sun tomorrow,’ Mithrandir says. Boromir turns to find the old man leaning against an arch of the colonnade. ‘I’ve updated your father on everything regarding Théoden, Théodred and whether Rohan will answer Gondor’s call. He was very interested in Éomer’s position.’ 

‘In what way?’ 

‘Whether he was declared heir by Théoden, whether he was wrapped up in Gríma’s mess, whether I thought him capable or not. The usual sort of questions your father enjoys lobbing at people when he wants something to pick apart in his spare time.’

Boromir makes a face before returning his gaze to Mordor. Soft crunch of leaves as Mithrandir joins him. 

‘I told him about the ring,’ Boromir says, not looking over. 

‘Did you? Just as well, he would have guessed, if he hadn’t already.’ 

‘I didn’t tell him about Amon Hen.’ 

Pipesmoke. Boromir flicks eyes over as Mithrandir blows out a circle. ‘You don’t have to tell him about Amon Hen,’ Mithrandir says with unexpected gentleness. ‘He is your father and he loves you, but it is not a situation he would easily understand.’ 

‘I don’t need him to understand. It’s more -’ Boromir glances around. ‘I don’t want to lose his good opinion. I want him to think highly of me. That entire situation would inevitably sink me in his estimation.’

Mithrandir tilts his head side to side yet does not say ‘yes and no’ aloud. But Boromir can hear it. 

‘It’s alright, I know my father. This isn’t news to me.’ 

Placing a hand on Boromir’s shoulder in a manner that can only be called fatherly, Mithrandir says, ‘Try and get some sleep, Boromir. Tomorrow there will be no dawn and we must be ready to do all we can to make sure this world will see the sun rise once again.’ 


	4. Edoras, an Interlude

A cheerful shout rouses Gríma from his quiet contemplation of the back of his eyelids. A loud laugh follows then there is clanging from the kitchens, the smell of meat roasting and fish frying. Rubbing his face Gríma notes the position of the sun and thinks he should possibly return to the hall and demonstrate some desire to make himself useful. Perhaps there will be further swords to sharpen or, even better, he can hide away in the kitchens and do the sprouts or debone the fish. Whatever tedious task there is that no one wants to do but will keep him away from the main hall where everything is loud and people are present and everything hurts when he looks at it for the wood itself is made of memories and memories are made of a feeling that makes his stomach riotous.

The crunch of grass, pebbles are displaced. Peeking over his shoulder Gríma spies Éowyn rounding the corner. She catches sight of him, glares, glares, then turns to stalk back the way she came. Yet, apparently a thought occurs for she pauses mid-stride and rounds back on him like a fury descending over the battlefield’s slain. Gríma slowly slides up Meduseld’s wall to stand so she is forced to glower up at him instead of down. 

‘My brother told me of your return,’ she positively spits. ‘I had not given the rumour credence when it first came to Edoras.’ 

‘It gladdens me that not everyone subscribes immediately to rumours without proof of their veracity.’ 

If Éowyn were a man, Gríma suspects she would be saying something along the lines of: _go fuck yourself._ Which is a sentence that has been levelled at him a few times since his return, though not nearly as often as he had expected. It’s the trees, he reasons. He’s only been with those who fought at Helm’s Deep and they all know about the trees. 

‘I would say, rather, that I had hoped it was inaccurate,’ she snaps. ‘Since none of us have any desire to see your face again. Your return is unwelcome, _that_ I can assure you.’ 

‘Yes,’ he drawls. ‘I am aware. I do register what people say of me, even though I may act otherwise.’ 

She sniffs, derisive. Gríma admires how she radiates ice despite her anger. Her coldness is an artform. He stares at her for a long moment before asking, ‘How did our city fare this past week?’ 

‘Well,’ she stiffly replies. ‘All was well.’ 

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ 

‘I somehow doubt that.’

He shrugs. Says that if the Lady Éowyn wishes to think him entirely unfeeling about the fate of this fine city, that is her prerogative. He never wished to see things razed to the ground. ‘And trust me, that is now to be our fate.’ 

‘Saruman is defeated.’ 

‘And Sauron is not. One is worse than the other.’ 

Éowyn’s eyes narrow but she makes no response. Gríma takes a half step forward, if only to dislodge himself from the shadows. Éowyn’s suspicions deepen. He takes another step forward, then another. She does not move for she is made of the stuff of monarchs, but her shoulders tense. Her jaw muscles clench. He thinks he ought to play nice but cannot help himself. 

Stopping a few feet from her, he waits for her to speak. He does not doubt she has something to say. Éowyn being one of the more clever, if opinionated, members of the king’s household. 

‘You should count yourself lucky that my uncle is a forgiving man.’ If a voice could change weather hers would make this a midwinter day. ‘Were I king I would sever your head from your body. Your blood might soil Edoras’ ground but it’s better than your presence shadowing our family’s steps.’ 

‘You never did warm to me,’ Gríma replies. ‘Well, I suppose I shall continue to be thankful Théoden is king and you are not. Nor are you the first to say such things. Though, I think that the more colourful phrasing I’ve received.’

‘I do marvel at you, Gríma, daring to return. Daring to show your face as if nothing has happened.’ 

‘That is an inaccurate interpretation of events, both past and present. I certainly am under no illusion about my tenuous position and I don’t believe I’m acting as if nothing has happened.’ 

‘What I mean is, have you no shame?’ 

‘Not particularly,’ he smiles. ‘I slither on the ground, remember? I’m a snake and my words are poison. Snakes have no concept of shame.’ 

Éowyn’s fingers grip the skirts of her gown and she gives him a disgusted look as she readies to whirl about again. If in an overly dramatic fashion. Not unlike her brother. A comparison he makes aloud: ‘Ah, to dramatically whirl away from a conversation. Your brother does the exact same thing, my lady. Must be a House of Eorl trait. Though your cousin lacked it, if I remember rightly.’ 

And there is another flash of anger. ‘You have no right to speak of my cousin.’ 

‘I may speak of whomever I wish, my lady.’ 

It is as Éowyn makes to reply that Gundahar rounds the corner, arriving in the midst of their little conversation to gawp. Must Gundahar plague his life in such a repetitious and dull manner? Gríma is fairly certain the gods have cursed him with Gundahar as punishment for his misdeeds.

Gundahar’s suspicious gaze takes in Gríma from head to toe then back up before it moves to Éowyn and turns into concern. ‘My lady,’ the young man greets cautiously. ‘Is anything the matter?’ 

Éowyn’s mouth tightens a fraction as she turns to greet Gundahar with a bow of her head. ‘No, nothing is the matter.’ 

‘If he’s bothering you—’

‘It’s the other way around, I assure you,’ Gríma replies. ‘I was merely minding my own business. You are the ones who have disturbed the peace.’

‘He’s of little consequence,’ Éowyn is all coolness. ‘It’s hard to be bothered by someone of little consequence.’ 

‘My lady, you wound me,’ Gríma sneers back. 

Gundahar continues his shifting glances between them. Gríma smiles, it is not a pretty expression. Finally, the guard says that the king has visitors — some great company. Friends of Aragorn’s, apparently. And ah, is that a flicker of interest in Éowyn’s eyes? Gríma thinks she could do worse than the future king of Gondor, even if he is unappealing on a personal level. It would certainly be to Éomarc’s benefit to have her positioned thusly. And if not the future king, perhaps the future steward? 

Provided the world does not end, Éowyn married to Aragorn would give Éomarc some influence at the right level to make sure Gondor keeps her sticky fingers off Éomarc’s future territories. The areas Gríma knows Théoden to have been eyeing for the last twenty years. Lands Éomer will likely undertake some effort to acquire. Lands that Gondor does not deserve. 

Anyway, it would annoy Lord Denethor and Gríma would take some small pleasure in that alone. 

‘Shall I tell your uncle that you’re on your way?’ Gundahar asks.

‘Please,’ Éowyn replies. 

‘And you?’ Gundahar scowls at Gríma. 

‘If that is what the king desires, I shall be present.’ 

Gundahar nods, right. Right. So, he’ll be off then? To tell the king. ‘Yes,’ Gríma snaps, ‘Be off. Since you’re his fetch and carry boy. You’re a bit old to be a page, but I suppose we must all begin somewhere.’ 

‘Better a fetch and carry boy than a traitor unwelcomed anywhere in our land.’ 

‘My, you are assuming the good people of the tiny hamlets in the deep hills of the Wold know what I did. Edoras is not the entirety of Éomarc. It is not the entirety of the world. No one place is.’ 

Gundahar opens and closes his mouth a few times before snapping, ‘one day you’re going to talk yourself into some serious trouble,’ before he stalks off around the corner and back to the hall. 

Éowyn eyes Gríma for a moment before she, too, turns away. Before rounding the corner she pauses, her face is in profile. ‘I would be careful with Gundahar, were I you.’ 

‘How kind of you to be concerned for my safety, my lady, but I’m not sure I follow.’ 

‘He’s the sort of man who thinks more with his fists than he ought to. At least according to what I’ve heard.’ 

‘There is a lot happening in that sentence, my lady.’ 

‘I don’t like you,’ Éowyn says. ‘But I don’t much care for Gundahar, either. I’m still determining which of you I dislike more than the other.’ 

‘Gundahar has the prettier face, though that isn’t saying much, and he has not yet betrayed his country. So I think it safe and reasonable to hate him less than me.’ 

Éowyn tilts her head. They are speaking quietly, as they do when they’re about to say things that cannot be unsaid. 

‘Not yet?’ 

‘I know nothing, if that is what you are asking. I am merely saying that a desperate man will, sometimes, do desperate things.’ 

‘That would be outside his nature. For all his faults, he is nothing like you.’

‘What is man’s nature, I wonder. I’ve never thought it a fixed mark. It is no northern star that remains true no matter the events that play out between ourselves. A man’s nature is as mutable as the weather. I believe there are steady truths fundamental to each of us, but the other aspects of ourselves? You were not always as you are now. I suspect you once knew how to smile. Gundahar is a loyal servant of the crown but who knows what secrets lay in the darker corners of his heart.’ 

‘An area I am sure you are well familiar with.’ 

‘I know little of Gundahar’s heart save that he has fixed it on you, though he is clearly to be disappointed on that front.’ 

Éowyn makes no response. She has not moved from her position at the corner, almost leaving, almost staying. From the angle of her head, how it’s tilted, the position of the sun, the shade cast by Meduseld, she is mostly in shadow. 

‘You speak as if you know me,’ her voice bites. ‘You are too bold and had best take care.’ 

‘But I do know you,’ he replies. ‘Better than your brother, certainly. Though, that isn’t difficult. Better than your uncle and cousin. I suspect, out of everyone here, I know best how your mind works and what it is you want from life. But we have discussed this before.’ 

Éowyn slowly turns her head so to look him fully in the face. But she does not speak. She studies him and he wonders what secrets she is hoping to find. He does not think there is anything left that she could make use of. What secrets has he, anymore? He believes himself wrung dry. 

Just when Gríma thinks there is no hope of a response she asks, ‘So, what was your promised price? You cannot dance around that question as readily as you did before.’ 

‘Safety, my lady. Security. Preservation from the horrors of Sauron and the army of the Witch King. He is wrathful, I have heard. It is a deluge when the former Lord of Angmar comes for you. I wished for some chance of survival at the end of the world.’ 

‘Anything else?’ 

‘What would you have me say, my lady?’

‘There were rumours—’ 

_‘Ah.’_

‘After the men were dead, you would have the pick of the treasure.’ 

Gríma lifts an eyebrow. He suspects the word _treasure_ is doing a lot of work in that sentence. ‘I like gold and silver the same as any man. Or woman. I have never made a secret of this. Who doesn’t like pretty baubles and rich fabrics? Who doesn’t enjoy finely woven cloth, the touch of fur, delicately tooled belts, expertly wrought steele?’ 

‘So you were offered wealth,’ she says. 

‘Yes, I was offered wealth. My pay from Saruman was _terribly_ generous. And I was offered power, another thing I’m quite fond of, as you well know.’ 

She waits. He waits. She clearly expects more but he has nothing else to add and can outwait a rock, if he must. 

‘You had many of those things before your treason. You had wealth and position.’ 

‘But not safety. We are at the end of all things, my lady. You cannot tell me you are not afraid.’ 

‘Isn’t everyone? But I do not allow my fear to control me.’ 

A brief, mirthless smile and Gríma says that he does not believe her. ‘But that is neither here nor there. You may tell yourself that you do not let your fear dictate your actions if it best pleases you, my lady. Far be it for me to infringe upon your perception of yourself. But you would not be hiding away and being the good, dutiful sister and niece if you weren’t letting at least a little fear control you.’ 

Then, he bows, and says that they should return inside. It wouldn’t be well for her to be absent at the introduction of these friends of the supposed return’d king of Gondor. If she aims to be queen, she must show that she is capable. 

Inside the hall, Gríma slinks into the shadows and starts to edge his way upward, towards the dais, so to better see the new arrivals. Standing before Théoden and Éomer is a group of thirty or so clad in grey. Now parallel with the dais, Gríma can see Aragorn making introductions. 

So, these are the ranger-king’s kin? Gríma takes in their sombre appearance, quiet demeanor, dark skin, dark hair, weathered clothes. They must all be rangers, as well. At least, they are dressed as such. Two pale, twinned faces stand out from among the men and, as they push their hoods back, Gríma sees that they are elves. How interesting that the future king numbers elves among his kin. Well, that may explain his wide variety of friends. 

Looking for Legolas, Gríma finds him on the other side of the main hall standing beside Gimli, both watching the proceedings with interest. Occasionally one head will tilt towards the other to exchange words. The hobbits cannot be seen but he reasons that is to be expected. 

‘Cousin,’ Torald whispers, appearing at Gríma’s elbow. Looming, ashen-blond and jaundiced eyed. ‘Making our family shine, as usual.’ 

Gríma shoots a glare at the older man. Torald merely smiles. ‘Owensel’s not here, is he?’ 

‘Oh, he’s around. He came south with us.’ 

‘Joy.’ 

Torald pats Gríma’s shoulder, ‘Should have thought about all this before you sold us down the river. Were I you, I’d avoid your brother for the time being.’ 

‘I have never willingly sought his company. Though he was never as bad as Baldir.’ 

A hum of agreement. That is true, Torald sighs. They have always been at odds as far back as he can remember. Which Owensel declares was none of his doing. ‘But,’ Torald makes a small gesture of _peace, peace,_ ‘I take no part in your disagreements. Brothers quarrel, it’s part of life.’ 

‘How is everyone else?’ 

They pause as the evident leader of Aragorn’s kin steps forward to bow to Théoden and make his greetings. His Westron rolls around like wind down a hillside. It’s an accent Gríma cannot place. 

‘They’re well,’ Torald whispers. ‘No one’s died recently. Your mother sends her well wishes.’ 

‘Has she heard?’ 

‘No, no,’ Torald shakes his head. ‘We did when we arrived. Quite the shock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your brother speechless in his life, but he was absolutely silent upon hearing the news.’ 

Which doesn’t bode well, in Gríma’s experience. He tries to have a discreet peer around the hall but does not make out his brother’s face. 

Torald continues, ‘I told him to behave himself. As I’m his Thane he’d best do as I say. Have you heard from Brynja?’ 

‘Not recently. We parted with unfortunate words last we spoke.’ 

‘Oh, but you always part with unfortunate words.’ Torald’s scathing smile, bringing with it an unexpected memory of fermenting apples and Torald’s father showing them his cider press. Wasps hummed at barn windows in afternoon sun. ‘It did occur to me that, as you’re no longer the king’s adviser, you’re free to advise me on a few things.’ 

‘I suspect there’s a twelve month cooling period, if I’m to be ethical about all of this.’ 

‘You? Ethical? You’re the one who put rocks in snowballs then aimed them at our heads.’ 

‘Yes, and I won,’ Gríma primly replies. 

‘And you tried to smother my brother in a snowbank. He almost died.’ 

‘In self-defense.’ 

Torald pats his shoulder again, ‘Sure. Sure. I’ll tell Leofric you send your love.’ He pauses as Théoden thanks the new arrivals for their kindness in coming to aid them in these times of need. The niceties continue. Torald whispers, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you that Owensel purchased a new field from Eoric who’s gone into debt due to his son’s poor financial decisions in some scheme cooked up with a merchant from Laketown.’

‘Sounds about right.’ 

‘Your sister-in-law decreed that Brandir and his wife Elga are not allowed to cross the threshold of their land. The reasons for this are vague and I haven’t been able to get anything out of her or Owensel.’ 

‘Owensel won’t know and Orva will never tell if she does not wish to.’ 

‘Your nieces and nephews continue on as well and as merry as they have ever been. Vidar is here with Owensel.’ 

Gríma purses his lips. Mutters that he left the Wold nigh on twenty years ago and had expected things to remain in the north. To which Torald replies that there’s no helping it when it comes to families, they change cities with you. Whether you wish them to or not. 

‘Oh, I was bid by Orva to tell you that your mother asks after you and Brynja with regularity.’ 

‘It’s always nice to know she remembers to care when we’re not around.’ 

‘Don’t be bitter.’ 

Gríma glowers. ‘You may tell her that I continue to bring honour and respect to the family name and that Brynja is in good health and Hereward is as he always has been.’ 

‘I will tell her that you are alive and continue to make choices that only you would make.’ 

The two elves step forward now and bring greetings from their father, Lord Elrond. The usual formalities continue. Gríma can feel Torald’s eyes boring into his head but he doesn’t wish to look at his cousin for he knows he’s about to receive a lecture from the man who has decided he is the head of the family despite no one asking him to assume such a role. 

Torald does not disappoint. Switching from proper Éorléden to the Wold dialect he asks, ‘Well? What were you thinking?’ 

Gríma decides that what he needs to do is take an hour, stand on a large crate in the centre square of Edoras, and shout to the crowds what his motives were. It would save everyone time, all things considered. Him most of all. 

He provides a short sentence. And Torald’s mouth is set in disappointment mixed with disapproval. 

‘So, what about us?’ 

‘What about who?’ Gríma asks. 

‘Your family. I won’t say friends, as I don’t think you’ve ever managed to figure out how that works. But your family, your sister at the very least.’ 

‘What about her?’ 

Torald sneers, ‘I’ve always disliked your games. Did you think of what would happen to us? Did you think of anyone outside of yourself?’ 

‘Éomarc as a vassal state--’ 

‘I understand your logic, cousin-mine. But our communities are small. Opportunity for marriage, for advancement, for occupation relies on reputation. It is a web and you have untethered us.’ 

They pause and Torald takes Gríma’s elbow, steering him to the shadows of the side aisles away from the lights and crowd of the main hall. 

In this darkness Gríma hisses, ‘Everyone in the north knows your worth, Torald. And they know my brother’s. You’ll not be tarred with the same brush. Nor will your children.’ 

‘It’s never that simple, as you well know.’ 

‘You’re Thane, don’t tell me you can’t leverage your name and your deeds to Owensel’s advantage, to his children’s advantage. It’s the Wold, they will be seen as cousins to the Thane before they will be nephews and nieces to a traitor.’ 

‘These things stick. Not everyone has the freedom to shrug their shoulders and fly from their post. You can slink off into Gondor if you want, or north or out east, or wherever. Not all of us can abandon our responsibilities so lightly.’ 

Gríma swallows, turns his head so he’s watching the smoke rise up in the main hall, how it curls and twists as it drifts into the rafters. His jaw tenses, his stomach knots. Torald leans forward causing Gríma to flinch back making his cousin sigh: _I’m not your brother._ Gríma does not know what to say to that so says nothing. Instead asking, ‘And if I said I was sorry?’ 

‘I wouldn’t believe you.’ 

That is entirely reasonable, Gríma thinks. He has rarely been sorry in the past and he has no words for whatever emotion it is that has unfurled itself in his chest, down his spine, into his gut. The heavy, deep one that first took root as they rode home across the plains from Orthanc. But it is not the light sentiment of “I am sorry.” 

Torald watches him for a long moment then pats his arm. Gríma starts, looks down at his cousin’s hand as it retreats to his side. He stares at Torald in confusion. 

‘We’ll be hashing and rehashing this for the rest of our lives,’ Torald sighs, rubbing his eyes. ‘Look, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do over the next few days. I’m disinterested in witnessing your execution.’ 

‘Of course, my lord.’ 

Torald rolls his eyes, tells him not to be mean. He remembers when they were kids and Gríma was the first to throw a punch when the other boys became particularly egregious in their torments. That’s the bit Torald’s a little worried about. ‘No punching people.’ 

‘I haven’t been twelve in a long time.’ A pause, Gríma adds, ‘And that propensity of my youthful ways has long since disappeared.’ 

‘All the same,’ Torald pats Gríma’s face, Gríma flinches. ‘Behave. Keep your head down and you’ll make it through. Anyway, I must go. We’re camped out of the west gate if you want to stop by but I wouldn’t advise it.’ Then, with another jarring pat, Torald melts back into the crowd. 

Attending to the king, Gríma watches Théoden and Aragorn whispering as they stand by the dais. Then, Aragorn bows and shuffles over the elven twins and two of his other compatriots for more hurried, quiet words. Coming away from them he nods to Théoden who stands and leads the group from the hall towards his rooms. 

Secret councils, then, are to be had. Gríma watches their leaving and contemplates how hard it would be to listen in. A great deal more difficult than at the Hornburg. And so he slides down the aisle, along the edges of the crowd which has gathered in anticipation of the evening feast though it is still some hours off, and back out the main doors. 

Once outside he lets out a long sigh, walks over to a pillar and rests his forehead against it for it is firm and stationary. And, thankfully, the world is quieter. Not silent, never that, but certainly less crowded. He sucks in a breath between teeth, holds it, exhales. 

‘I saw you making fraught conversation with your kin,’ a merry voice behind him. 

Gríma closes his eyes. ‘I’m having a moment.’

Legolas comes closer for his voice is now near to Gríma’s head. ‘Is this a habit of your people? To meditate thus?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘I see.’ 

Gríma opens eyes and stares down at his feet, the stone of Meduseld’s portico, the leather of Legolas’ boots. ‘I’m having a bit of a rough day.’ 

‘Trials and tribulations are to be expected in such times as these. But you must meet my friends, my heart is light and joyful now that we have found them again. I had such fears for them when they were taken.’ 

Gríma says that he’s met the hobbits. Sort of. Anyway, he’s not in the mood. But Legolas is swaying happily saying: _come, come._

‘No.’ 

‘Whyever not? If you are not meditating then why do you feel you must stand with your head against this pole?’ 

‘It’s as I said, I’m having a moment.’ 

Legolas shifts from foot to foot. Then, tentatively, ‘It is to do with the wizard and foul deeds done for him?’ 

‘Something like that.’ 

‘But the second hardest part of that is already over for you have already admitted to your deeds publicly. And your king has told you how you are to make restitution for harm done. Which is not the correct order but that may be a human thing. You do not have long lives and therefore you may not have the time required for the meditations and journeys we expect of those seeking to repent of their actions.’ 

Righting himself Gríma blinks in confusion. ‘Second hardest part?’ 

‘The hardest is the meditations and the journeys. Gimli spoke of how dwarves will go to the dark heart of the cave in order to come to truly know themselves. It is something akin to that for my people of Mirkwood. When you have done great harm, you must publicly admit your deeds. Once you have done that, you are to take time to journey into yourself to understand what needs to be done so you are no longer the kind of person who causes these harms. It is the most difficult part of this process and requires a great deal of introspection and confrontation with oneself.’ 

‘I see.’ 

‘And it takes much time which, as a human, you do not possess. You live a faster life and therefore, perhaps, your meditations and journeys into yourself are speedier for it.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ 

Legolas smiles, ‘And have you done this?’ 

‘What? Some dark journey into my soul? Hardly,’ he sneers. ‘It’d be an unpleasant thing. I’m not very nice and not terribly good.’ Brushing past the elf he stomps off towards the stables. More for something to do than any need to be there. 

Legolas follows. 

‘Why?’ Legolas asks as Gríma comes to a rest at Stigr’s stall. 

‘Why what?’ 

‘Why do you say that you are not nice and not good?’ 

Gríma raises an eyebrow, ‘It’s self evident I would have thought.’ 

‘Perhaps we have different notions of what it is to be nice. I have not found you wanting in that regard.’ 

The stables, with their half light and the softness of the smell and the sights and sounds, the gentleness of the animals therein, invites a brash, fleeting moment of openness which Gríma has not felt in years. He hears himself say: ‘There’s a part of me that remains convinced that I ought that have stayed with Saruman. Surely that is the ending I deserve.’ 

‘Is it?’ 

‘I would think so.’ 

Legolas stares at him then turns and reaches out for Stigr who ambles over in hope of treats. Gently petting the horse’s nose, then neck, he says, ‘I do not know you and I do not know your people. I was born but yesterday, as my father tells me with some regularity. Though, I am old enough to remember Gil-Galad so I do tell my father that it was not yesterday I was born but last week.’ 

Gríma snorts and Legolas glances over with a sly expression. 

‘What I do know,’ Legolas continues. ‘Is that there are dark and evil things in this world. I have seen a few of them myself. I grew up in a land that is slowly being consumed by such forces. And as such, I believe I can safely declare that you are not evil. Indeed, I would say that you are a lucky and fortunate individual.’ 

‘Am I?’ Gríma sneers. ‘Pray tell, how am I fortunate? My luck spirits ran off the moment I was born.’ 

‘You are fortunate and lucky because you have caused harm and done foul deeds but there are those who are willing to give you a second chance. It is my understanding that this is a rare and valuable thing. A special thing. Therefore, my friend, I would advise you not to waste it on purpose. Do not cause your own failure solely so you can say that you have always been thus.’

Then, Legolas cheerfully smiles at him and declares Stigr to be a beautiful horse and that truly, he should meet his friends. ‘My heart has been gladdened by their return. You need gladdening, too. Come, come.’ 

But he doesn’t want to face happiness and he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he has been called a friend and he doesn’t wish to intrude on joys that are not his and so demures. Legolas shrugs, says again that he is welcome, before departing into daylight.

The evening unfolds as Gríma expected it to: Meduseld is loud, there is much food, much song, much dance. The hobbits talk Théoden’s ear off and Aragorn’s new compatriots are a source of much speculation. There are rumours of his leaving in the middle of the night for Gondor, talk of elvish warriors arriving any day now, of secret alliances and old deeds. Gríma pays none of it any mind. 

Throughout the night he is mostly ignored, which he is thankful for. Save the occasional moments when Legolas finds him to ask him to explain a turn-of-phrase or custom. At one point Éothain passes with a stiff greeting, ‘How’s the hand?’ 

‘It’s been better.’ 

Éothain replies, ‘I see.’ Then lifts his cup, gives a perfunctory nod, and walks off. 

It is several hours after most have returned home or found a bed to crawl into that Gríma leaves the main hall to walk the familiar and foriegn paths he has always walked. At his office door he stares into the darkened room but cannot cross over. With the dim light afforded by the moon slanting in through closed shutters he can see that someone has been through his desk and the sideboard. The portable sundial is gone. He suspects many other things have vanished themselves as well. He does not wish to know what has walked off and what remains. 

Closing the door he continues down the hall, eventually coming to what was once his room. Standing before it he presses a hand to the soft wood then tries the latch. It opens. Peering in, he expects to see someone making use of it but the room is mercifully empty. 

Entering, he closes the door and leans against it. Taking a deep breath he looks up at the shadowed ceiling. Swallows. Thinks that he doesn’t know what it is he is feeling but there is a lot of it and it terrifies him. He wants it to stop. Just as he wants his hand to stop hurting and he wants his family to disappear and he wants everything to just _stop._

To just cease. For ten minutes. So he can breath and it can be silent and he can have some semblance of peace. 

Coming fully into the room he walks carefully, as if he would disturb something. It is strange to stand in a space that was once wholly his and to know that it does not belong to him and that others have riffled through his belongings. There are ghosts of their fingers on everything before him. Signs of their unwanted presence. 

But, he knows he has no real right to complain. 

Lighting a small reed lamp, Gríma notes that his trunk is unlocked and the books left by his bed are gone. Which is mysterious, for they would be of little interest to anyone here. Half were in Skoltse, the other half in Westron and there was one in Sindarin. No one can read any of that save the House of Eorl, and they can only read the Sindarin and Westron. 

Maybe Éowyn took them as a form of petty revenge. 

Sitting himself on the floor he opens his trunk to find that it is not completely empty, as he had expected it to be, but most everything else is gone. Which makes sense, people came to see if he had something of theirs that had vanished over the intervening years. 

What remains are two blankets, an old winter tunic, a wooden comb, the cloak he wore when he first arrived in Edoras, and a small box containing powdered ink and a pen knife. He frowns at the objects. Takes them all out and places them neatly in a row on the floor. There is nothing in the blankets or his cloak. Nothing else remains in the trunk. 

Someone walked off with his mother’s backgammon box. 

The rings and broaches and necklaces and hair clasps and other pretty little things he has picked up over the years, not to mention the king’s sword — all of that he expected to be gone. But the backgammon? For some reason he had assumed it would remain. He had assumed it would be obviously personal and therefore would not be touched. 

Which was stupid on his part. No one expected him to return and no one bears him any love. Why not take it? It would fetch a goodly price in the market. 

With great care, Gríma takes up the blankets, refolds them and sets them in their proper place in the trunk. Then his old cloak and tunic. Then the smaller items are nested back where they belong. Closing it he finds himself sinking down so he is kneeling by it. Resting his forehead on the top he stares at the floor and tells himself that he is not going to become overwhelmed. He will not be so weak as to cry. He is not a child. 

He has heard that they are to leave for Dunharrow in the morning, there is no time to fall apart.


End file.
